When he reached the top of the hill he drew a long, deep breath. Away on every hand stretched the fine, undulating country—patches of wood, homely farmsteads, well-cultivated fields, and broad stretches of moorland. It was a day to rejoice in, it was a scene to revel in; but Leicester did not rejoice. And yet he had gained that for which he had struggled. Olive Castlemaine had promised to be his wife, and thus he would be able to wreak the vengeance over which he had brooded. Last night the thought had brought him a cruel, savage joy; that morning even he had gloated over the thought of his revenge; but now all was different. Suppose he had his way, suppose he played the game he was playing to the bitter end, what would be the good of it all? He would have fulfilled his vow; but somehow it seemed mean, paltry, unworthy. Besides, his scheme was of a devilish nature. It was savagery, coated with the veneer of civilisation. Murder would be far more merciful.

"That woman knows a secret to which I am a stranger," he said as he looked down on the lonely farmhouse. "Of course I could explain away all she said, and I could laugh at her childish superstition, but she possesses something which is hidden from me. And she was right, too. What is a man the better for revenge? When one has had his eye for an eye, when he has given measure for measure of scorn and disgrace, who's the better? Suppose I have my way and—do what I said, what then? Suppose, when I have worked my will, I go away, leaving only desolation and disgrace behind, should I be any happier? No, I should still be in hell!"

He strode along like a man in anger.

"I felt that I was Radford Leicester again when she kissed me last night," he went on. "I was at The Beeches again, and for a minute I was in heaven—yes, in heaven. I was the lover once more, and, great heaven, how sweet it was to love!"

A new light came into his eyes, and he looked more like the Leicester of old, Leicester at his best. For a moment dark passions were dispelled by something higher, purer; the sunshine of joy rested upon him, but only for a moment.

"No," he cried, "that's all gone. I'll see the thing through to the end. Besides, it is not I whom she loves. It is a rich foreigner, a partner in the Great Tripoli Company, a Signor Ricordo, a man with an Italian father and a Moorish mother. Radford Leicester is nothing to her; she said so. She declared she could never marry him; ay, and in spite of her promise to him, she is willing to marry Ricordo. A woman's promise! Byron was right, in spite of all canting moralists. A woman's fidelity is like thistledown, and her promises are written in the sands.

"I wonder why that woman is so happy?" he went on presently. "A lonely widow, she has lost her husband, and her son was killed in the war, and yet she is happy. Her faith is strong, she has no fear. Of course she's simple, and she's ignorant; but if she's happy—great God, what does all our learning amount to? What is the value of all this culture of which we boast? She might have known all about me in telling that story of Aaron Goudge, for, after all, the motives of that sullen blackguard were quite as high as mine. Liddicoat wronged him and he tried to murder him. Olive Castlemaine wronged me, and I have brooded over something which is really worse than murder. He had his way, and then lived in torments; and supposing I have my way, what shall I be the better? Oh, what a bitter mockery life is!"

He strode along the valley which he had entered, and then, climbing the hill before him, came upon a long stretch of waste land.

"She told me she loved me," he went on; "told me that, in spite of struggle, her heart went out to me; told me, that while she feared me, she was never happy unless I was near; ay, and she told me, that although her promise never to marry seemed binding when she thought of others, it seemed to become less and less real when she thought of me. Well, why can't I be happy? Why can't I keep up my character, and live in happiness with her? She loves me, and I—no, I don't—I hate her still—yes, I hate her more than ever!"

But evidently he was not satisfied. The simple farmwoman had started him off on a new train of thought.

"'Nothing is ever worth doing wrong for; it never was, and it never will be.' Who said that? It's true after all. We may sneer at right and wrong, we may say that right and wrong alter with different peoples, different countries, but they remain; yes, and right is heaven, and wrong is hell. And I know enough of life to have learnt that hate means black night. The joy of it is devil's joy, only to turn to bitterness and gall. What is revenge, after all, but going to hell yourself in order to drag some one else there? And that's what I've been thinking of. But if I don't, what then? Let me think of that now; but no, I won't. I'm not one who vows to do a thing, and then throws it over lightly."

The sun began to lower, and the air grew cooler. The sweet, fresh air of the moors fanned his brow, and it seemed to bring healthier thoughts to him.

"Winfield refused to stay with me as my guest, when he knew what was in my heart," he said, "and Winfield does not profess to be a saint; he's only just a clean-minded, honest fellow. Was he right, I wonder? Why, after all, can't I be happy? Let me think now; yes, I will think it out. Suppose I give up my scheme of revenge; suppose I go away and leave my plans unrealised. Not that I am going to do it; but suppose, for the sake of argument, that I did, what then? I should never see her again, and she would think of me as an Eastern adventurer who proposed to her, and then was obliged to leave the neighbourhood because he feared the law or something of that sort. Never see her again!"

He stopped in his walk as though some unseen force barred the way.

"Never see her again!" he repeated time after time. The thought seemed to stagger him as it became more and more real to him.

"I hate her!" he cried. "Did she not drive me away from her, and in driving me away sent me to regions which——"

He started on his walk again.

"I loved her last night for a minute; yes, I loved her then. I forgot everything, and I was in paradise. I loved her; yes, and O God, I believe I love her now!"

For an hour he walked along with stern, set face. Away in the far distance he could see the tor which rose up behind the ninth hole, at the golf links. With that as a landmark, he could not lose his way. Not that he would have cared if he had. A great passion burned within him, to which even he had been a stranger.

"Could I—could I—after all, do what I have made up my mind to do? Could I, out of pure devilry and desire for revenge, drag her name into the mud of disgrace? Could I make her the byword for gossiping women? Could I leave her a wrecked, ruined woman just because I——Besides, what should I feel? Hell! No hell which I have ever entered would be as deep as that. Talk about a bottomless pit full of fire and brimstone—it would be nothing to what I should feel."

Again he thought of the woman at the farmhouse, while the story of Aaron Goudge came back to him; and as he thought, a new feeling rose within him as though he heard something saying, "Be a man; do the thing that is right."

"What is right?" he asked. "Suppose I were to go to her now and tell her everything—everything. What would she do? She would drive me away as though I were a leper. She told me that she did not love Radford Leicester, and that she would never marry him, even if he came back repentant and worthy. How much less would she love him, then, if I were to tell her the whole truth? If I was unworthy of her six years ago, how much less am I worthy of her now! Let me think, now. There are three things I could do. First, I could go away and send to her telling her that Signor Ricordo was an adventurer and had to fly for fear of his life. Then all would be as though I had never come. No, it would not. Then I hated her; but now, yes, I believe I hate her still! But I should give up my scheme of vengeance, and let her remain to live her own life. That is the first. Then, second, I could carry out my scheme. I could go on as I had marked it out. I could leave her, wounded and disgraced, as I should know she would feel herself wounded and disgraced. And oh, the thought of revenge is sweet! Then, third, I could go to her, cap in hand, and tell her the whole story—that Leicester was dead, but that he has risen again. But in either case I should have to leave her; I should go away, and never see her again. And could I bear that? No. And that reminds me, there is another way. I, Signor Ricordo, could marry her. I could live here. I could play the squire; I could be happy. But could I? To know all the time that I was a living lie! Besides, the truth would be bound to come out. No, there would be no rest nor peace that way."

Everything, he scarcely knew why, was changed. The thing he had longed for was within his reach, and yet he did not want to stretch out his hand and grasp it. The kiss which still burned on his lips somehow roused within him new feelings. The story of the country-woman changed the course of his thoughts. He still longed for revenge, but the sweetness of it was gone.

There was a change in the look of the sky. Right in front of him, and behind the tor, a great blue-black cloud was rising rapidly. In a few minutes it seemed to cover the whole of the southern horizon. The wind blew colder, the air seemed charged with sulphur. Not that he minded. Indeed, he scarcely noticed the change of the atmosphere. Presently the sun seemed to change colour. First it shone through a great purple haze, and then it was blotted out.

He found himself shivering. Across the wild wastes of the moors he heard a moan, like the moan of some despairing monster. He knew it was only the wind, but to him there was a kind of personality behind it. The great spirit of the moors was breathing across the broad expanse, just as he had heard the spirit of the desert breathe across the great wastes of sand.

A few minutes later he heard the distant rumbling of thunder, and although it was yet day, it became almost as dark as a winter evening. The thunder came nearer, and then he saw a flash of lightning. He still trudged on. The weather did not matter. The storm in his heart drove away all thoughts of the storm that was coming upon him.

Again the thunder rolled. This time it was nearer, while the flashes of lightning were more vivid. The rain began to fall too, not rapidly, but large, heavy drops splashed against his face.

"No, I can't give up the scheme of years," he cried. "I won't be the plaything of a passing fancy. She might have made a man of me; but instead she sent me into outer darkness. I might have been a good man if—if she had—but should I? Was my reformation anything but a passing mood? Might I not, if I had married her, dragged her down into the mire even as I have planned to do since? After all, I was but a straw in the wind. The moment she gave me up I flew to the drink and to the devil. What right had I, after all, to expect anything else?"

In spite of himself, he gave a start. It seemed as though right above his head the heavens were torn in twain, while the whole sky was lit up with blue vivid flashes of light. The rain fell in torrents.

"How relentless Nature is, after all!" he thought. "What can man do in face of such forces as those? Is God behind it all, I wonder? If so, what is the use of our working against Him? Let the breath of the Almighty touch a man, and he shrivels like the leaves in autumn. Unless he works in unison with Nature, Nature crushes him. Have I been trying to do battle against God all these years, I wonder?"

The rain continued to fall, but he still trudged on. He had a sort of savage delight in feeling the rain beat against him, in seeing the lightning's flash and hearing the thunder's roar.

"I was a blind fool," he cried. "I believed that I hated her, I believed I should hate her for ever. Yet, at the first touch of her lips on mine, I find myself as weak as a child, and still I can't give up my dreams of revenge. What playthings we are, after all!"

A moment later he was blinded, first by a flash of lightning, which he thought had struck him, and then by the rain, which came upon him in a deluge.

"I can't battle against this," he said; "it's impossible, yet there's no shelter anywhere." Through the blinding storm he saw a huge rock. At least that would shelter him somewhat, and with difficulty he made his way towards it. From there he could watch the tornado of the elements.

"Is there a God behind it all, I wonder?" he thought as thunder-clap followed thunder-clap, and the whole heavens were lit up with streaks of light. "If there is, does He care? Yes, there is a God, there must be. I wonder if that woman was right? Did Jesus Christ come to tell us what God was like? Is there any meaning in that story? She believes it, and she says that that man Aaron Goudge found peace in it. I wonder, now; I wonder."

"God help me!" he cried presently. It was an involuntary prayer. It had passed his lips even before he knew, and yet, although he knew it not, it was the natural expression of a soul in torment.

He laughed aloud. "I've been praying," he said. "Well, why not? I wonder now if God cares? Would He hear me if I spoke to Him?"

The thought struck him as curious. He had scarcely ever prayed in his life, but somehow there was a meaning in it now. Some words came back to his mind, like the memory of some forgotten dream. "Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Heavenly Father. Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened unto you."

Who said that? Yes, it was Jesus, the Man of Galilee, who claimed to be the Son of God. Was God His Father? Well, and why should he not pray?

Perhaps it was because of the experience through which he had been passing, perhaps it was because of the storm which swept in mad fury across the moors, or perhaps it was because of a deeper reason which no man can put into words, but Leicester knelt down on the heather and prayed while the lightnings flashed and the thunder rolled.

He uttered no wild, incoherent cries, he scarcely spoke a word; but he prayed, and as he prayed the whole of his life seemed to sweep before him. Things forgotten, thoughts that were strange, visions seen only from afar came to him. There was something awesome, majestic about it all—the storm-tossed man pouring out his soul to his Maker, amidst the storm-rent heavens.

"Great God, tell me what to do, and I'll do it," he said at length. No voice came out of the skies, no message came to him from out of the angry winds. The storm still swept on in wild fury. How long he knelt he knew not, it might have been hours, but he knew that he had entered deep in the heart of things. A man who really prays enters into an experience to which the prayerless man is a stranger. What thoughts passed through his mind I cannot tell; perhaps he could not have told himself—he only knew that the foundations of his life had been broken up. He realised what he had been, he knew what he was. He saw life as he had never seen it before—saw how poor and vain were the thoughts of man, how great were the thoughts of God. The great deeps seemed to be revealed to him, and he knew that no man lives unless he links himself to the Eternal Heart, the Heart made real by the Son of God, who lived and died. The reasonings of man seemed but the crying of children; the logic of the schoolmen no more than children's castles on the sands. There were great deeps beyond all their theories, deeps never to be understood by the mind, but felt by the soul. God had spoken.

When he rose to his feet, he also knew that he had risen from the dead. There was a new life in his heart, and he was conscious of it. The Radford Leicester of hours before, and the Radford Leicester of now, were different. He had passed from death unto life.

For a time he walked on, almost unheeding whither he went, but presently, as the sky became clearer, he saw the dim outline of the tor which had been his landmark. As he saw it, he realised that he was not more than an hour's walk from Vale Linden. In two hours or so he would see Olive again, and he would tell her what was right for him to tell. For he knew what he had to do now. The only course was the right course, and he must walk in it. He knew what it meant, too. When he told Olive who he was, and related the story of the past six years, she would bid him go away, as she had bidden him long ago; but he must tell her all. He owed it to her, and he would pay his debt. The future was not in his hands, but in God's, and he would fight against his Maker no longer.

"Good gracious, sur, you've been out in all this weather."

"In every bit of it, Mrs. Briggs."

"And there's not a dry thread on 'ee."

"Not one." And he laughed as he spoke.

"I've bin wonderin' 'bout 'ee for 'ours. It's bin a ter'ble storm."

"It's been very wonderful. Have you any hot water, Mrs. Briggs?"

"Plenty, sir."

"I'll have a bath, and dress for dinner. The simpler the meal the better, Mrs. Briggs."

"Certainly, sur. I'm thankful you are safe. I was afraid you was struck by the lightning, sur. Were you afraid of it all, sur?"

"Yes, I think I was."

"Well, thank God, you are safe, sur."

"Yes, I thank God too, Mrs. Briggs."

The woman looked at him curiously; there was a new tone in his voice, a new light in his eyes. He no longer seemed a "strange Eastern gentleman" to her.

He ate his dinner in silence. He had but little appetite, but he went through the form of eating for fear Mrs. Briggs should think he was not pleased with her cooking.

Presently he rose to go out. "Goin' out again, sur? I should have thought you'd been tired after bein' out in all that storm. I should think you don't get any wilder storms in the parts you've come from."

"Different, Mrs. Briggs, entirely different."

"I suppose it's very grand, in they furrin parts," said Mrs. Briggs, "but I don't want to leave Vale Linden."

"Nor I, Mrs. Briggs; but I shall have to."

"Not yet, sur, I hope."

"Yes, very soon, I expect."

"I am sorry. I was hopin' you'd stay a long time, I was, for sure. The house won't seem like the same without 'ee. You do git more English too, sur, makin' so bold."

"Thank you, Mrs. Briggs; you've been very good to me."

"You won't be laivin' before the end of the summer, will 'ee, sur?"

"Very likely I shall leave to-morrow."

"Nothin' wrong happened, I 'ope, sur?"

"A great deal has happened, but nothing wrong. Mrs. Briggs, do you believe a man can rise from the dead?"

"Not in these days, sur. Of course they did in the time of our Lord. There was Lazarus, and the young man in the village of Nain. Of course the Lord can do whatever He will."

"Yes," said Leicester quietly, "I believe He can."

He went out into the night. The storm had gone now, and the sky was cloudless. After the wild tempest, a peace had come. The air was fresh, and pure, and sweet. Nature was a parable of his own life. After the black death of winter came the resurrection of spring, after the wild storm had come a peace. Life was new to him. He felt it in every fibre of his being; old things had passed away, but he felt a great sorrow in his heart. For he knew what lay before him. From that night Signor Ricordo would be no more, and he, Radford Leicester, must go out into the wilderness again.

He hesitated for a moment, and then went indoors again to his own room. In a few minutes he came out again, and started for Vale Linden Hall.

"It is the will of God," he said, as he went, "it is the price I must pay. Well, I will pay it to the uttermost farthing. Then I will go away, and live my new life."

He was not long in reaching the house, and he was admitted without a word.